Hello! My name is frank, you may be wondering why this is written on your basement wall. Well I've been dead for twenty years and frankly I'm fed up with counting bricks and composing short symphonies using an old cardboard box. So I'm writing this in hope that you come down soon and pay me a visit.
If you're interested, my impromptu grave is three steps forward of the stairs and one sidestep left, I'm roughly two and a half foot down in a hideous mockery of the standard burial rituals and I feel as though I could perhaps do with a move some time soon.
I'm also afraid that I must apologise for the writing conditions, as once you become a spectral being halfway in between the ethereal plain of Eraĕk-taw and earth, your only real writing tool is the ability to excrete a substance that looks like bright green jam but smells like a mixture of toothpaste and the smell you get from banging two rocks together quite hard.
If I could ask a small favour too, I don't mean to be an inconvenience but can you please come down once a week put a jam tart on a table and play Separate Lives by Phil Collins. I don't want to freak you out by telling you why I need you to do this, however rest assured it is essential.
Any reading material you could give me would also be wonderful.
Thanks a bunch!